A Brother's Advice
by The Fields of Asphodel
Summary: Her first kill was merely a suggestion.


A/N: My first NCIS piece! This has a few minor tags to Child's Play in the beginning when the girl asks Ziva is she's ever killed anyone. That's where I got the inspiration from – I wanted to know why Ziva lied. And I ended up writing something completely different. Oh well, such are the trials of a writer. Staying on topic seems to be impossible for me.

Disclaimer: If I owned NCIS I would have sold it and bough a Ferrari with the money by now. Do I have a Ferrari? Nope, and I probably never will *sigh*. Which means NCIS doesn't belong to me.

**A Brother's Love **

_The rain falls in heavy droplets, soaking her small figure as she runs. Her trainers skid on the ground and she almost trips over her wet laces but continues onwards relentlessly. The shabby buildings she passes without a backwards glance are empty and lifeless, not a single window illuminated with the yellowish light she has come to associate with cheap electrical bulbs. The street is deserted and a tiny sense of relief fills her at the discovery but it is all too soon blotted out by the familiar dread. _

'Have you ever killed anyone?'

The question in itself is innocent enough, the answer glaringly obviously as long as you are addressing 99.97% of the population. Ziva David never was in the majority. To her the question digs up unwelcome memories of a night long forgotten, banished to the recesses of her mind and left to fester. It is a wound beyond healing and in her experience it is better left alone rather than prodded at with a stick. As long as she can forget the pain that comes with the memories they cannot touch her.

_She sees the soft glow of old, yellowed bulbs reflected on the bricks at the end of the alleyway and her feet momentarily stutter in their rhythm, pausing. Much later she will curse her weakness, the hesitation in her mind that began at her first time and grows larger and larger with each bullet fired until eventually she really does pause at the trigger. Her second of doubt here and now will cost her her partner's life in some distant future but at thirteen years old, running through the rain with soaking hair and a gun concealed in her pocket she does not know this. She does not realise the amount of pain her hesitation will cause. _

One thought will always lead to another, and another and another. Usually this process is accepted as the way the mind works, skipping from one topic to another until there is almost no apparent links between the first and the last. Ziva has never been one to accept something as unchangeable, as a part of her that cannot be influenced by her own wishes and must simply be let be. She has always fought against the way her mind works, knowing that letting it wonder haphazardly into her past is dangerous and will eventually cause repercussions far outside the boundaries of her thoughts.

_She comes to halt at the end of the street, this time her stop decisive and planned rather than hesitant. It was decided long ago that she must pause here and watch from behind the safety of the thick stone wall, waiting for the moment of opportunity to present itself. Her young, unscarred mind travels back to an afternoon weeks ago in a loft filled with bright light and flowery curtains. It is her and Ari's somewhat secret hide-a-way, not much of a success seeing as the entire household knows of its presence. The important thing is that no-one will disturb them there. _

_Their mother will not come a-knocking on the door and bring in a platter of tea and cakes like she once did. Their younger sister will not poke her pretty little head around the door and ask them what they are doing, (and now many years later looking back Ziva finds it ironic that at thirteen and still in possession of hands not covered in blood even the child she once was always thought of Tali as the more innocent, even when she was just as pretty and young.) The maps and plans are carefully laid out on the recently carpeted floor, her and Ari's head bent over the papers in deep concentration. _

_And now, standing in the dark street chilled to the bone as another icy gust of wind drives through her Ziva is reminded of the question that led her to be here, huddling against a wall with fingers fumbling to open her jacket pocket and pull out the revolver. 'Do you want to make our father proud?' Her answer is a moment too late in coming, her pause a little too long but her voice is strong and proud. 'Yes.' _

A simple question, asked in the space of a moment that is almost immediately forgotten by the speaker, shoved away and labelled irrelevant to them, can cause a world of pain for the answerer. Two questions, each so completely different that if they did not refer to the same event Ziva would find no correlation between the two at all. The answer she gave the genius-child is clearly a lie, and as the ex-Mossad assassin contemplates the situation behind the safety of her desk, she comes to realise that maybe they both were.

_The voices from the pub drift over to her as the door is thrown open, a few drunks stumbling into the street. Their hunched figures are immediately blotted out by the blackness, the night claiming her prey all too easily. If only her own prey would hurry up, she cannot help but think as she nervously fingers the gun in her pocket. _

_Every moment longer she has to stand out here means one more moment in which she is caught; her dread-ridden brain manages to convince herself. Her jitters are from the cold, not the guilt she already feels weighting down on her. She wants to leave so that she will not be recognised, not because she doesn't want to do this. _

_It never crossed her mind that she had any choice in the first place. _

If she had said no, things would be different. She would undoubtedly be dead, one of the many bullets or knives or explosions or shrapnel her training allowed her to evade buried deep inside her heart. Ziva David would be lying cold in a cemetery in Tel Aviv, perhaps buried next to her much-loved but shunned sister. Maybe Ari would have filled the void her wrong answer would have left. Maybe Ari would have been Malachi's partner. Maybe she would have killed Tony six years ago and Ari taken her place as the Mossad liaison, becoming Kate's partner.

But he would have moved on when the time came for his assignment to change. He would have said a formal goodbye, maybe given Abby a quick hug (because despite appearances, she often thought that if he had not killed their co-worker the team would really have liked the good side of Ari) and then been off. He would not have dated an ex-partner or let her play him. Kate would not have had to take things into her own hands and wind up killing said officer in his own flat. He would not have left in a rage, pulling a gun on his trusted co-worker. He would not have gotten captured or saved.

Perhaps it was better that she had said yes.

_The rain is coming down ever harder and she wonders if he will ever show. As if drawn out by her futile, fervent wish a figure steps through the thick oak doors and out into the street. She glances around, checking one last time that everything is perfect. The street is just as empty as it was before, the drunks having all stumbled home to angry wives and dirty bedding. She can understand why they wash away their sorrows in cheap beer, but she also knows what kind of nasty bacteria can breed in a vat of alcohol. She would touch the stuff even if you paid her. _

_The revolver Ari placed into her deep coat pocket fits perfectly into her hand and her finger falls, quite naturally, on the trigger. It is as if the instrument has been moulded specifically for her usage. She presses ever closer to the wall, the flap of her pocket pulled up as she removes she gun. Her subject is standing in just the right place, having come to stop a number of feet away from the noisy pub and light a cigarette. _

_The night has swallowed up half of his face, the other part illuminated by the glow spilling from inside the building. She raises the gun, quite proud that her fingers do not shake as she takes aim and levels the barrel at his forehead. The trigger is pulled without hesitation but already she can feel the doubt building in the back of her mind, having grown stronger ever since she paused over an hour ago. _

'You lied,' his voice startled her but she remained iron solid, refusing to let herself flinch. The subject of his conversation is evident and blaring red warning triangles flash in her mind. The young face of the child who asked her the question popped up behind her eyes but she forced the image down, storing it away for a later date. Tony was staring at her from his desk, eyes watching her suddenly still figure with a mixture of worry and curiosity.

'And?' her voice was deathly quiet and seemed to echo slightly in the silent bullpen.

'It's been bothering you all afternoon,' he replied in earnest, as if trying to draw the information he wants from her with nothing but his energy. She fixed her eyes on her computer scene and ignores him for the rest of the night.

_The shot rings out and instinctively she whirls, clutching the gun to her chest and pressing her back against the wall in fear that someone might have heard. She counts to ten and peers around the corner, not knowing what to expect. _

_The man is struggling to his feet – apparently her 'kill shot' was more of a 'wound shot'. His shoulder is stained red and he swears in multiple languages as he fingers the damage carefully. Her lips pull up into a grin as she recognises a few of his more colourful words, storing them away for later use. She strikes just as she had pulled himself up again, about to call for help. She cannot let others get involved – her aim is hardly perfect and she doesn't have the bullets to waste on a second or third person. _

_The second bullet hits his leg, bringing him down again. At this point, she isn't really trying to kill him, more experimenting. Stepping out from behind the safety of her wall, she keeps her back pressed firmly against the stone as she inches forwards, eager to get a closer look. His eyes are shut and he is on his back, hyperventilating. The third bullet hits his chest, the fourth following it almost immediately and this time she gets her desired 'kill shot'. He is dead before he can even see his killer. _

_The blood streaks the pavement, running in various lines down the cracks in the cobble stones. She never realised that there is quite so much blood. It is a mistake she will not make again. That night, standing in the pouring rain over her first kill and staring into his strange, dim eyes, Ziva learns many things that will prevent many possible mistakes. _

_She learns that killing a man isn't as difficult as people always make it out to be – really the act of pulling the trigger is easy, almost childishly so. She learns that hiding in the shadows and playing it safe is a good option but when you want to kill someone you have to be adventurous. After all, it was the bullets that she fired once she had left the safety of the blackness that killed him. She learns that intoxicated men never hear gunshots and that you don't need a silencer if you're standing next to a pub late at night. _

_She learns not to be overconfident with her first shot and to always have extra fire-power. She learns that water does not wash away blood, whatever anyone else may claim. And perhaps most importantly she learns that her brother isn't always right. He said that it would be difficult, after all. _

_So when people ask about her first kill, she fabricates the story. Sometimes she is sixteen, seducing an arms dealer before slipping a knife through his ribs. Sometimes it is Moscow, sometimes Paris. She sets a bomb off or kills someone by slitting their throat with a piece of glass. She is occasionally wearing a beautiful dress; usually set running through the streets of Beirut in cargo pants. _

_But she never tells anyone that her first kill was at thirteen, in her own home town wearing beat up trainers and hiding behind a wall in rain-soaked clothes. She never tells them that it took her four bullets to kill her first man. Or that it was her brother's suggestion._

A/N: I need to focus on not doing so many authors notes…that'll be my challenge for the next piece. Anyways, the italics were Ziva's memory of her first kill if you couldn't tell, the normal writing Tony and Ziva's discussion about why she lied to the girl (I forgot her name…was it Rachel?) Anyone who reviews gets a slice of my amazing (virtual) seven layer chocolate cake! You know you want it…

Written: 2010 aged 12


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